Hallelujah
by Anonymoustache
Summary: John's parents want to have dinner with him and his significant other; namely, Sherlock. It doesn't seem like a big deal. However, things go horribly wrong and their evening is ruined by a simple miscommunication that has a huge impact. How will this affect John and Sherlock's relationship? And how will they get through their most difficult trial; themselves?
1. The Minor Fall

_A/N; While reading this, keep in mind the fact that "Sherlock is a girl's name"._

_This is dedicated to my dearest Sherlock ADD buddy. Love you, Rainy :) And sorry in advance for the feels (Yup I pulled a BBC)_

_This was written while listening to Hallelujah by Rufus Wainwright (obviously) LISTEN AND THERE SHALL BE IMMENSE FEELS._

_Love and serial killings to you all ;3_

_Ta,_

_Anonymoustache_

oOo

_I've seen your flag on the marble arch_

_Love is not a victory march_

_It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah_

oOo

"Sherlock? Can I talk to you?"

Sherlock looked up from where he was lying on the bed. John was standing in the doorway, a strange look on his face.

"Of course, John." Sherlock sat up and shut his book, setting it on the nightstand.

John walked over and sat down next to the detective uneasily. He was silent for a few moments, as though trying to figure out how to phrase his words.

"My parents called," he said carefully.

"Ah."

John took a deep breath, obviously bracing himself for a negative response."They would like us both to come to dinner with them. Tonight."

After a few moments, Sherlock spoke. "Fine."

John raised an eyebrow, momentarily stunned. "You're okay with that?"

"Yes."

John coughed. "I have told you…_about_ my parents, right?"

"That they're very traditional and uncomfortable with homosexuality, yes," Sherlock said.

"Then…you're sure?"

Sherlock sighed. "_They've_ invited _us_ to dinner. They can't be too uncomfortable."

John sighed in relief and nodded. "I suppose. I just wanted to make sure you were okay with it." He stood up and headed for the door.

"John?"

John looked back at the detective, who had stood up.

"Thank you for checking with me."

John's face broke into a smile. "Of course, love."

He walked out the doorway and towards the kitchen, undoubtedly to make himself a cup of tea.

Sherlock turned around and stared at his wardrobe in deep thought.

_What does one wear to a dinner with homophobics?_

* * *

><p>John knocked gently on the bedroom door.<p>

"Ready to go, love?"

The door slowly opened, revealing a nervous-looking Sherlock wearing an immaculate navy blue suit with a clean white shirt buttoned up to the collar underneath. He was wearing a black tie with it, which was slightly crooked.

"Will this do?"

John smiled fondly at his lover. He reached out and straightened his tie, letting his hands slide down against the soft fabric of the suit jacket to rest on Sherlock's chest.

"I think you look amazing."

Sherlock blinked in relief and, leaning forward, pulled the doctor into a tight hug, placing a chaste kiss on his lips.

"I love you."

John closed his eyes, placing his head next to Sherlock's long, porcelain-pale neck, taking in his amazing scent of chemicals, smoke, and _home_.

"I love you, too, 'Lock."

* * *

><p>"How much have you actually <em>told<em> them about me, John?"

John stepped out of the cab behind Sherlock, paying the driver and shutting the door behind him. He shrugged at Sherlock's question, following the detective up onto the pavement.

"Not a lot…just that you were tall, dark-haired, and a bit different."

Sherlock nodded abruptly.

They walked down the street in silence, trying to prepare.

"John…"

"What is it, love?" John asked, linking their fingers while they still could.

"What about Harriet?"

John stiffened slightly. "What about her?"

"Well…your parents don't…I mean, they aren't…"

John sighed and kicked a can towards the alley. "Harry has always been my parents' favourite. She could come home pregnant with alien babies and they'd be tickled." He stared angrily across the street as they continued to walk. "She came out when she was fifteen, and my parents thought nothing of it. As if they didn't desperately avoid gays in public every day."

An uncomfortable silence fell upon them.

"Alien babies…those would make interesting nephews."

John snorted, the joke bringing him up a bit.

"So what time are we meeting them?"

"Seven," John said, mood lightened a bit.

Sherlock nodded nervously and, for the thousandth time, tugged at the edge of his jacket.

"Stop it," John said in a mock stern voice, swatting the detective's hands away from his sides. "You look fine."

"I know," Sherlock hissed. As John walked towards the doors of the restaurant, he surreptitiously reached down and tugged at it once more.

_Just to be sure it's straight._

_Oh, the irony._

Sherlock smirked and followed his lover towards the unknown.

* * *

><p>John craned his neck to look around the restaurant.<p>

"There," he said firmly, pointing towards a table near the back. At the table sat a man with graying hair and a lady with a head of thin blonde hair that had been permed far too much.

"You remember the signal in case things get to be too much?" John whispered as the waiter led them over to the table.

Sherlock's hand traveled over and tapped John's hand three times in quick succession.

John gave him an abrupt nod as they reached the table.

The lady and the gentleman looked up at the two of them as the waiter set two more places at the table.

"Mum…dad…" John said nervously.

"Hello, Johnny!" his mother said in an irritatingly high-pitched voice.

Sherlock winced.

John's father didn't say anything, he just sat there and stared at his son.

"It's so lovely to see you!" his mother said in that same annoying voice. Her gaze turned on Sherlock. "But I thought you were going to bring your girlfriend."

John stopped, confused. "What?"

"Your girlfriend!" she said insistently. "What's her name? Oh, Harold, help me out here…what did Johnny say his girlfriend's name was?"

John's dad looked up from the menu. "What?"

"Oh, Harold, do pay attention!" she said. "John's girlfriend's name! He told us! You do remember, don't you?"

"Mum, I…" John tried to intervene.

"Quiet, John," his mother said bossily. "What was it, Harold? Sharon? Susan?"

"No…" Harold thought for a moment, "No, it was Shirley, wasn't it, Edith?"

"Sherlock!" the newly named Edith exclaimed excitedly. "That's what it was! Awfully strange name for a girl, but I let it slide."

Edith smiled up at her son, who was currently at a loss for words. "Where is the dear girl?"

"Ah…well…" John looked around desperately, not quite sure what to do.

"Ahem," Sherlock coughed, directing the attention towards himself.

_Here's where things get tricky._

"Mr. Watson, Mrs. Watson…" Sherlock said in the politest voice he could manage. "I'm Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes." He looked over at John, eyes apologizing for what he was getting them into.

"I'm John's boyfriend."

Harold and Edith Watson's faces really should have been framed, Sherlock mused. They were rather priceless.

John just stood there, staring down at the floor, his face pale.

"Johnny…" Edith said uncomfortably.

"Come on, Edith," Harold stood up and gave John a glare. "We're leaving."

"But Harold…" Edith didn't finish as her husband grabbed her arm from across the table, dragging her up with him.

"Dad…" John said miserably.

"Save it, John." Harold said. He walked briskly towards the exit.

"I'm sorry, dear," Edith said, though she didn't sound very apologetic, Sherlock thought.

"Maybe next time you could leave your boyfriend home."

"Edith!"

The other diners turned slightly at the noise, but soon went back to their conversations.

Edith gave John one last glance, then walked away towards where her husband was waiting by the door.


	2. The Major Lift

John watched as they left the restaurant, eyes full of an indescribable pain. As soon as they were gone, he sat down heavily at the table and put his head in his hands.

"I should've known," he muttered. "I should've known."

"John…" Sherlock murmured sympathetically. He sat down across from his lover and took one of John's hands in his own.

However, John yanked his hand out of Sherlock's, giving him a murderous glance.

"Why'd you have to tell them, Sherlock?" he asked in a choked voice. "Why?"

"I…I was just trying to help…" Sherlock said, momentarily stunned. He stood up and backed away, giving John a bit of space.

"You didn't _help_," John said bitingly, "All you did was make things worse. That's all you_ ever_ do!"

He was yelling by the end of his outburst, his face red. All of the diners were staring at the unhappy couple now, watching the drama unfold.

Sherlock's face wore a look of total shock, his skin pale. Then, he stepped towards John and, ever so gently, tapped his hand three times.

John looked down at his hand, then back up at Sherlock, a horrified look on his face.

"Sherlock…" John said in a broken voice.

The detective backed up, shaking his head sadly, eyes beginning to water.

"I'm sorry." John offered shakily. It was all he could say.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment as hot tears slid down his face.

Then he turned and ran.

* * *

><p>The thick London air filled Sherlock's lungs as he walked down an alley towards nowhere, trying to calm down. He was holding his jacket in his hands, allowing the misty rain that was falling to soak into the thin fabric of his rumpled white shirt.<p>

Night had fallen, suffocating him like it was made of jet black silk. Dim light pooled on the alley floor from various flats and lampposts that lined the streets.

Sherlock didn't really know where he was going. For once, he didn't even know where he was.

_I would go home, but I don't know if I have a home anymore._

He turned and slid down the alley wall to sit on a stack of old newspapers, pulling out his phone to thumb through his messages.

_3 New Messages_

**_From; John Watson_**

_I'm sorry._

**_From; John Watson_**

_Please come home._

**_From; John Watson_**

_I love you._

Sherlock sighed heavily and looked up at the dark sky above him.

* * *

><p>Minutes later he was lulled to sleep by the steady drip of rain onto the pavement in front of him.<p>

* * *

><p>A soft beep echoed through the silent alley.<p>

_1 New Message_

**_From; John Watson_**

_I'm coming to find you. I'm not going to let this go._

* * *

><p>Sherlock's eyes flew open and he sat up from where he had been leaning against the alley wall. He looked down at his phone.<p>

Only half an hour.

There was one new message from John. After a moment of hesitation, he deleted it without reading it.

_I don't care anymore. All I ever do is fuck stuff up._

_According to John._

Sherlock didn't know his heart could hurt this much.

* * *

><p>A few moments later, Sherlock heard footsteps running somewhere close by and a figure appeared at the end of the alley. The person turned and looked down the alley, then began to walk towards him.<p>

Sherlock's heart began to beat faster…then stopped altogether for a moment.

_Is that…_

The figure came into closer view and Sherlock's suspicion was confirmed.

_John._

The doctor was soaking wet, not having put on his coat before coming after the detective. His hair was plastered to his head, small beads of water dripping down his still figure.

"Sherlock," he said, out of breath.

Sherlock stood up slowly, facing John threateningly.

John didn't shrink away. He walked closer, his eyes alive and full of an apologetic grace.

"I'm sorry," John said quietly. "None of this was your fault."

He reached out and gently took Sherlock's cold hand in his own.

"You did exactly the right thing, and I…I was the one who fucked up, Sherlock." John looked sorrowfully at the detective.

"Can you ever forgive me?"

Sherlock stood there for a moment, unable to think. Salty tears began to fall from his eyes, mingling with the rain.

"Yes," he said in a choked voice. "God, yes, John. I…of course I forgive you."

John was crying now too. "You have no idea…the _guilt_ I had…"

Sherlock pulled John in close, wrapping his long arms around him. "I know…I know…I love you so much, John."

John slid his arms around Sherlock. His lips met the detective's, tasting smoke and mint, tasting _home_.

They rocked back and forth in the pouring rain, held tightly in each other's embrace, lips meeting in a never-ending stream of kisses and reassurance. It soaked their clothing, running in rivulets down their arms and backs as they cried into each other's shoulders, in relief and grief and guilt and just pure _love_.

oOo

_And it's not a cry you can hear at night_

_It's not somebody who's seen the light_

_It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah_

oOo

The End


End file.
